


Plans

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hurts like a son of a bitch, but he can take it.  He can take a lot of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Post Episode 102. Written for LJ's hc_bingo challenge, for the prompt "loss of limb/limb function." Merle is a racist and his views are not mine.
> 
> * * *

"Daryl! DARYL!"

Merle jerks awake on the threadbare sofa, blinks in the sunlight streaming through the barred window. His arm is a storm of stoked fire, each ember stirring to life as he struggles to sit up. He frowns, leans toward the broken glass and listens intently. He can still hear his ma's voice, see her stricken face when she came upon Daryl at the base of that tree. Merle could've told her that Daryl was so goddamn hard-headed that he could fall outta a dozen trees and not crack that thick skull of his.

"Damn fool. You hearin' things now?" he mutters, shaking his head. "That was near thirty years ago." 

Merle licks his dry lips, reaches shakily for the half-empty bottle of warm water and limits himself to a single sip before pulling himself up to look through the security bars. He counts half a dozen walkers milling about in the alley below, two more in the recessed doorway of the discount store at the corner. He snorts derisively. Nothing he can't handle.

He steps over the body of the apartment owner, props his arm on the dining room table to change the bandages. He leans close and sniffs at the jagged stump of the wound, nods in satisfaction when there's no telltale smell of decay. He rewraps it clumsily with fresh gauze, winces when he ties the ends. Hurts like a son of a bitch, but he can take it. He can take a lot of things.

He finds a dirty backpack in the closet, makes his plans as he stuffs it full of all the food and medicine he can carry. First he needs to get the hell out of Atlanta. Nothing but a goddamn city of the dead. He should've known nothing good would come of following the chink and the niggers out here. He's gotta get himself out into the sticks, make his way to that old hunting cabin the old man used to frequent, back when he spent more time hunting deer and less time shooting off his mouth down the tavern. Cabin might be falling apart but it'll do while his arm heals up.

Then he'll make his way back to that camp. Show Officer Friendly just how ol' Merle takes to being handcuffed to a roof and left to die.

The backpack is bulging at the seams by the time he's through. He hefts it onto his shoulder, finds himself reaching for the strap with the arm that ends in a ragged stump. Even when he realizes what he's done, Merle can still feel his fingers reaching to snag at that dangling belt, even though his hand is currently baking on the roof of a mid-sized Atlanta department store. Damn funny how the mind works.

He allows himself another sip of water before he eases out the door and down the fire escape, only has to dispatch one of the geeks before he's made it to the end of the alley and has started sprinting toward the city limits. The heat bakes down on his bare head, and every jogging step sends a spike of pain through his injured arm. But he has no doubt he'll make it. He's got plans.

He never knows that he passes within thirty feet of a middle-manager's office where Daryl is currently tossing his brother's severed hand into the face of the scared, mouthy teenager whose gang has kidnapped one of their own.


End file.
